The Cruel Stars

by Christopher Nuttall

  Jameson was speaking. Alan dragged his attention back to the younger man.

  “... New starfighter pilots and starfighters,” Jameson said. “Ideally, you’ll be ready to depart in two days.”

  Captain Chester leaned forward. “Am I to understand that my pilots will have no time to train together?”

  ... Shit, Alan thought. He hadn't heard everything Jameson had said, but he could guess the rest. No time to get the newcomers integrated into the rest of the squadrons?

  “We don’t have time for much of anything,” Jameson said, sharply. “You’ll have to rely on simulations.”

  Brilliant, Alan thought, sarcastically. Jameson seemed to understand the problem, but he wasn't doing anything to fix it. And yet ... was there anything he could do? A week spent training might cost them their chance to do real damage. But then, not training might also cost them their chance to hurt the enemy. We’ll get our asses kicked if we don’t train ...

  “It isn't good enough,” Captain Chester said. There was a dull murmur of agreement from the others. “Commodore, we need time ...”

  “We don’t have the time.” Jameson cut him off. “I understand the problem, Captain. In an ideal world, we’d have plenty of time to train until the pilots could fly their starfighters in their sleep. But we don’t have the time. If we don’t manage to cripple the enemy, even hurt them just a little, we will lose the war.”

  We may lose it anyway, Alan thought.

  He shivered. It was a truism that Britain could not be defeated. Britain was a Great Power, capable of destroying any of the other Great Powers. A small war could be lost, perhaps, but a bigger one? The Great Powers knew better than to let one take place. But the aliens were an outside context problem, their mere existence changing the balance of power. A total defeat had been unthinkable, only a few short months ago. Now ... it was possible.

  And will they enslave the entire human race, he wondered, or will they destroy us?

  “There will also be some modified scanners and remote sensor platforms,” Jameson added, slowly. “We believe they may be effective against the alien stealth systems, but we don’t know for sure. We’ll be testing them in combat for the first time.”

  “Joy,” Abigail muttered.

  Alan nodded. In his experience, new technology - no matter how much it was hyped - always produced unexpected surprises when it was taken into the field. He would have preferred to test the new systems thoroughly before trying to use them in combat, but it looked as though they weren't going to have a choice. Besides, the systems probably couldn't be tested outside combat.

  “We will depart in two days, once the remaining personnel have arrived,” Jameson concluded. His gaze swept the room. “I am aware of the problems. This would not be an easy mission, even under better circumstances. But I don’t think we have any choice. We need to buy time and, right now, we don’t dare risk a major clash. Hitting their supply lines is our best bet.”

  He nodded, slowly. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Dismissed.”

  Abigail caught Alan’s arm as they headed for the hatch. “Do you have time to get your people ready?”

  “I hope so,” Alan said. “Time is not going to be on our side.”

  He scowled, considering the problem. They knew enough about the aliens now to run some proper simulations, but nothing beat actual exercises. Perhaps they could hold a couple before they made their way into disputed territory. Jameson probably wouldn't object to that, as long as the squadron didn't slow down. It wouldn’t be ideal, but it would be better than relying on simulations. Emergency drills always left out the emergency.

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” he said. Abigail could leave, he supposed, although she might wind up being charged with desertion. He, on the other hand, would be going straight back to jail. “The commodore is right. If we can't buy time for Earth, we could lose the war.”

  “And the aliens don’t seem inclined to take prisoners,” Abigail agreed. “That bodes ill for the future.”

  Alan nodded. It was impossible to say how many lifepods had been launched before the MNF had been annihilated, let alone what the aliens had done with them. Perhaps, just perhaps, they’d been allowed to land on New Russia. Or, equally possible, they’d been blasted out of space ... or left to float forever, utterly alone. The aliens might have watched from stealth, hoping the emergency beacons would lure a stray ship into range. But was there anyone left to listen for the beacons, let alone try to rescue the lifepods?

  He shivered. He didn't know.

  “We’d better get back to the ship,” Abigail said. She patted his back. “It looks like we have a lot of work to do.”

  “Yeah,” Alan said. He supposed she was trying to be reassuring. It wasn't working. “We have far too much work to do.”

  And a damned letter to write, he added, silently. I can’t procrastinate any longer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alan tried - hard - to hide his wince as he strode into the briefing compartment, Bennett dogging his heels like an overgrown puppy. There were just too many new faces in the crowd, ranging from pilots so young he couldn't help feeling they should be in diapers to pilots so old he had grave doubts about their reflexes. Starfighter piloting was a young man’s game. Old age and experience might beat youth and speed in the movies, but it was a different story in real life.

  At least we got to keep a couple of pilots from the other ships, he thought. But they took some of our experienced pilots in exchange.

  He felt a flash of Déjà Vu as the compartment quieted, slowly. He’d been here before, back when they’d been preparing for the convoy to New Russia. The faces were different, but the intent was the same. And yet ... it was different, too. They’d known the universe had changed, but they hadn't believed it. They sure as hell believed it now.

  “Welcome onboard,” he said. He winced, again, as he surveyed the room. The newcomers were all too easy to spot. “I hope you all managed to claim your bunks and stow your bags without trouble. I also hope, for the newcomers, that your bunkmates warned you that this is a dry ship. No alcohol, no drugs ... nothing that might distract you from the mission. I’ll be checking your bags later, so if there's anything you don’t want me to find I suggest you send it back to the station. There will be no further warnings.”

  There was a faint murmur of irritation. He ignored it.

  “Those of you who weren't at New Russia should have had a chance to review the recordings,” he continued. “If you haven’t done so, do so now. You have to understand what we’ll be up against when we reach our destination. The aliens are not gods, but they are powerful and they know how to use their advantages against us. I’m counting on you - all of you - to stand your ground when we encounter them for the second time. This war is a war for survival. We are all expendable in the defence of our homeworld and our people.

  “I’ve heard some of the stories from the training centres, from snide jokes about grey hairs to suggestions that some of the recruits have to be taught how to go potty. Forget them, right now. You’re here because you passed the basic proficiency tests - and because your country needs you. Your planet needs you. We need you to work as a team, not sharpen your claws on each other. If any of you, and I mean any of you, tries to break apart the team, for whatever reason, you’d better damn well hope the aliens kill you before I do.”

  He paused, just long enough to allow his words to sink in, then looked at Maddy. “The floor is yours.”

  “The ceiling is ours,” Greene said, quickly.

  Alan glared him into silence. “Maddy?”

  Maddy took a breath. “Post-battle assessments of the alien starfighters suggested ...”

  Alan watched their faces as Maddy spoke, quietly noting who was listening and who was too self-obsessed to pay attention. They weren't - quite - the dregs of the service, but they weren’t the Royal Navy’s aces either. Too many of them had died at New Russia. The younger pilots had been rushed through
the training program, while the older reservists had spent years out of a cockpit. Too many of them hadn't bothered to keep up with their training either. Alan had a feeling that there were going to be a few changes, once the war was over ... if humanity survived. The entire reservist system was buckling under the strain of so many people having to rejoin the navy at short notice.

  And the older ones will be a steadying influence, he told himself, firmly. Perhaps they can keep the younger pilots in check.

  He didn't think the message was really sinking in, not amongst the younger pilots. They’d been taught to be hot dogs, to use their craft to best advantage, but the threat environment had changed sharply. They might have flown the trench run in the simulators - no one had ever had to launch a torpedo into an exhaust vent on a moon-sized starship in real life - yet they’d never experienced so much counterbattery fire. The aliens might be able to shoot torpedoes out of space, just by filling space with plasma bolts. They’d have pretty low odds of hitting anything with a single blast, but they fired so many that the odds tipped sharply in their favour.

  And if they manage to improve their targeting, he thought grimly, they might wipe out entire wings before they get into attack position.

  “You won’t feel it in your bones, not yet,” he said, when Maddy had finished. She’d kept herself strictly to the facts, but very few of the newcomers looked convinced. “You won’t grasp the sheer power they possess. That's why we’re going to be in the simulators, sparring with their craft until you all understand what we face. And this time” - he hardened his voice - “the aliens will not have any computer-given advantages. You will be facing them as they really are.”

  He sucked in his breath, wondering how many of them would actually believe him. Their trainers at the Luna Academy had always tipped the balance in favour of the enemy, giving them speeds and accuracy that were almost superhumanly good. The simulated enemy always scored hits when the computers deemed there was a greater than forty percent chance of hitting the target. It wasn't officially discussed, but everyone knew the simulations were tougher than reality. And when they asked, they always got the same answer. Hard training, easy mission; easy training, hard mission.

  But the aliens were just too good to simulate, not without making them completely unbeatable. Humanity did have some advantages - the analysts had made that clear - but not enough to give them an edge. A Spitfire or a Hurricane starfighter enjoyed greater accuracy than their alien enemies, yet what did that matter when the aliens could fill space with lethal plasma bolts?

  “I’ll be checking your quarters in thirty minutes,” he said, making a show of checking his wristcom. “After that, we’ll be going straight into the simulators. If you haven’t freshened up, make sure you do. There won’t be another chance. Any questions?”

  A pilot stuck up his hand. “Is it true we’re getting long-range life-support packs?”

  “Yes,” Alan said, bluntly. He wasn't looking forward to using them, but the packs might come in handy. “And a few other surprises too.”

  He looked from face to face, then nodded to himself. “Dismissed.”

  The pilots rose and filed out of the room. He met Maddy’s eyes and nodded to the hatch, silently ordering her to leave too. The hatch closed behind her, leaving him alone. He looked at the datapad, unsure if he wanted to see a new message or not. He’d written a letter to his daughters, the night after the briefing, but there had been no reply. It didn't bode well, he feared. Jeanette had never had any trouble responding instantly to her friends, even when she’d been seven years old. Perhaps she was just having problems deciding what to say.

  Or perhaps the in-laws have told her not to reply, Alan thought. There were no rules barring him from visiting his family, but ... he’d been in jail. And he didn't think he’d be allowed to leave the ship long enough to go to Earth, even if he wanted to. God alone knows what the in-laws told them.

  His inbox wasn't empty, but none of the messages were particularly important. The beancounters seemed to believe he needed hundreds of generalised updates, very few of which had anything to do with him. And he’d signed up for a handful of news services, hoping to catch up on how politics and technology had evolved while he’d been in jail. There had been very little news in Colchester and he hadn't paid attention, not really. He didn't even know the name of the Prime Minister.

  He opened the first message and read it quickly, trying to read between the lines. There would be censors in each of the news offices now, invoking DORA and making sure that the editors didn't print anything without prior approval. No matter what happened, most of the news was terribly bland. No actual untruths, as far as he could tell, but a great deal of misdirection. The government would probably get away with it, too. Sir Charles Hanover had believed the media to be nothing more than enemy combatants and he’d slapped all sorts of control laws on them. Hanover might be dead, but the laws lived on.

  And yet, reading between the lines, there were hints of trouble, of people becoming aware of the truth. There was a sense that the ground was shifting, of the world changing in an unpredictable way ... that nothing, perhaps, would ever be the same again. He remembered reading some memoirs from the world before the Troubles, memoirs written by people who had tried not to think about the way society was slowly tearing itself apart. They hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, he recalled. Acknowledging that their sacred cows were nothing of the sort would have broken them. The more honest ones, in hindsight, had recognised the truth. They’d been nothing more than useful idiots.

  Alan shivered, despite himself. He’d once been caught in a blow-out, a hiss of escaping air all the warning he’d had before the gravity had failed and he’d plunged towards the hull breach. It had been a drill, an unannounced drill. There had been no real danger. And yet, just for a second, time had seemed to freeze while the awful truth had dawned on him. Now ... it was no drill. Twelve fleet carriers were dead. The rest of the fleet might not be enough to stop the aliens.

  You’re being maudlin, he told himself, sharply. Stop it.

  His wristcom bleeped. It was time to inspect the pilot quarters. And he hoped, as he rose and walked to the hatch, that they’d listened to him. He wanted to chew someone’s ass, just to make it clear that they had to listen, but he didn't have time. There was too much else to do.

  At least it will keep me busy, he thought. I’ll have no time to brood.

  ***

  “The fleet command network has been updated,” Anson said. “You’re apparently third in command of the fleet.”

  “Flotilla,” Abigail corrected. “Calling seven ships a fleet is a little unbelievable.”

  Poddy coughed. “Do you get extra pay?”

  “I don’t think so,” Anson said. “Just command, if Commodore Jameson and Captain Smith get blown away.”

  Abigail nodded, studying the display. Five escort carriers and two frigates held station near Tallyman, the latter playing host to Commodore Jameson and his staff. She had to give him credit for risking his ass as well as hers, particularly as the frigates would draw a great deal of enemy fire. The engineers had bolted extra armour to the hull, as well as additional close-in point defence weapons, but Abigail had her doubts. There was no way the frigates could carry the same weight of armour as Ark Royal.

  And we can't either, she thought. We’re as defenceless as a newborn baby.

  She scowled. The extra plating might help, if the aliens strafed the ship, or it might not. She would be happier, she admitted privately, if she knew for sure. Her simulations suggested it might give them some extra survivability, but it depended on what assumptions were programmed into the computers. The only good news, as far as she could tell, was that the enemy plasma cannons were apparently short-range weapons. They didn’t have to worry about being sniped from extreme range.

  Anson coughed. “Mum?”

  Abigail gave him a sharp look. “I think that we’ll have more important things to worry about if I take command,”
she said, flatly. Losing both frigates would be bad, not least because the aliens could then concentrate on the escort carriers. The chances were the aliens now knew a great deal about what Haddock and her sisters could do. “Do we have an updated flight path yet?”

  “No change,” Anson told her. “I think he’s planning to reconsider if we run into trouble.”

  “Smart move,” Abigail agreed. She silently gave Jameson credit for that too. “We have no way to know how the situation might have changed in the last few days.”

  She checked the latest set of reports, silently grateful that the beancounters - for once - had been silenced. Alan had told her that he no longer needed to file requests in triplicate to get what he wanted, as long as it could be found. Haddock had been resupplied with everything from medical gear to food, drink and even a handful of portable gaming machines. Abigail wasn't sure if there was a valid use for the machines or not, but she had to admit their presence was a good sign. And yet, it was worrying too. A great deal depended on their mission.